Chapter 8: Happy Accidents

May 5th, 1522

Taking a watch shift wasn't something Ace commonly did. While commanders could take up responsibilities on the Moby Dick like any crewmember, they usually had other things to worry about.

Given his grounding—and there really wasn't any other way to think about it, in his opinion—Ace didn't have other things to worry about. His division didn't have the same paperwork loads that other divisions like Thatch's and Blamenco's did; it wasn't like the second was in charge of food or ship maintenance. They were a strike force, a rapid response team. And since Ace was benched, taking watch was just about the only thing he was permitted to do besides walk around.

The two nurses keeping an eye on him hadn't been happy about Ace climbing up to the crow's nest, but they hadn't been able to stop him, either. He was more impressed that, after a harsh whispered debate, they followed him up and were now seated on the wooden yard on either side of the basket. In their tight skirts and fishnet stockings, traversing the rigging was no small feat.

He had one more day of "bedrest." Thanks to repeated sessions with Marco during which the sea stone came off, he'd gotten those two weeks shortened to a week and a half and his strict confinement loosened to free reign of the ship so long as he had a nurse escort. They probably hadn't intended to include the main mast as part of that range, but they should've thought of that ahead of time.

Up this high, the ocean wind was nearly constant even though the Moby Dick was moving at a crawl. They had two paddle ships flanking them with crews on both ready to intervene if the temporary repairs to the flagship began to break down. Ace was really trying not to think about that. He'd gotten into a full-on shouting match with Tasuka the previous day over wanting to go and help Blamenco fix what Ace had broken or at least help bail out the water that leaked constantly into the ship, but she had put her foot down citing his injuries and even gotten Blamenco to back her up.

He leaned on the basket's railing and looked out at the horizon. To say he felt useless was an understatement. He wasn't even allowed to make amends—though he had apologized. At length. Whitebeard had taken it well, Izo had warned him to never pull a stunt like that again, and Blamenco had indicated that as long as Ace paid for the repairs, there weren't any hard feelings.

Ace's treasure hoard was looking rather thin at present. Since joining Whitebeard, he hadn't been the type to go after other pirates just for their stuff, but seeing his stash go from respectable to pathetic hurt. He'd had more wealth as a ten-year-old.

Paying Rinji for his ruined coat had been just the right amount of salt in the wound.

With his chin resting on his arms, Ace could feel the lack of stubble on his face. A fresh mirror, a new razor supplemented with careful applications of fire, and he was back to being able to look at his own reflection without wanting to scream. So that was nice, at least.

Movement from below caught his eye. Thatch was strolling around the deck, weaving among groups of pirates. One of those pirates pointed up and Thatch followed his finger, squinting up at Ace.

For a second, Ace hesitated. Thatch had been coming to see him plenty while Ace was in his room and even hung out while Ace was wandering around the ship. Always ready with a joke, always suggesting pranks that were guaranteed to get them both in trouble—but always, always watching. Whatever he'd said while unconscious, or maybe just the exploding thing itself, had Thatch on edge.

What if…no. If Thatch knew, then there was no way he'd still treat Ace the same way. No way in hell. He might try to hide it, but it would show. This clinginess was something else.

Ace shoved all of those thoughts aside and waved.

Thatch's acrobatics up to the crow's nest put both Ace's and the nurses' to shame. He landed neatly in the basket and took a bow while the nurses offered polite applause.

"Thank you, thank you." He straightened, grin firmly in place. "Did you time that apology for when I'd be in the kitchen on purpose?"

Ace leaned his elbows on the basket. "Dunno. Did I?"

"Brat. I heard that Blamenco charged you for repairs, though. How much?" Ace's expression said it all. Thatch had the gall to laugh. "Sorry, sorry. It's not funny. I mean, it's not that funny." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I also heard some rumors that you're looking for something to do."

The two nurses whipped their heads around. Thatch stiffened under their sharp gazes, swallowed, and pressed on. "I've gotta take inventory this afternoon, and everyone else in my division has made themselves very scarce when there's still food prep to do."

"Taking after their commander, clearly," Ace drawled.

"Hurtful, and you sound like Marco. Anyway, I'm sure helping out with basic kitchen management doesn't violate any of your medical restrictions, right?"

The two nurses exchanged a look and then nodded. Thatch beamed.

"Great! I knew you'd say yes."

Ace didn't even get a chance to point out that he hadn't, actually, before Thatch was tugging him over the side.

"I already have someone on their way to take your watch shift. Down we go!"

For all his confidence in getting Ace into the kitchen, Thatch wasn't sure how to carry out the task he'd assigned himself. A week and a half of trying to act like everything was normal around Ace had only served to set the young man on edge to the point where Thatch worried that he was going to start losing the trust he'd worked so hard to build.

So, after a talk with Marco, he'd decided to be a bit more direct about things. Just a bit, though. Ace was always touchy about personal matters that didn't start with L and end with "uffy."

He tapped the pen against his chin while he peered up at the top shelves. Taking inventory was boring, quiet, and time-consuming. Most of it was spent in the pantry, which—while massive to accommodate their prodigious food stores—was still rather cramped from all the stuff crammed into it.

His joking offer to let Ace take inventory while Thatch peeled potatoes had been met with a bland stare and a rather definitive "no." Speaking of…

Thatch peeked his head out of the pantry door. "How's progress?"

The knife Ace wielded with adept precision flashed in the light while he whittled away at a potato. He tossed the peeled vegetable into the bucket of its brethren while the peel remnants on his blade got swiped into a separate bucket already coated in them. The knife on his hip really wasn't just for show; Ace knew his way around a blade.

"I can't say it's the most exciting thing I've ever done. Don't other members of your division usually take care of this stuff?"

"Usually," Thatch acknowledged. He leaned against the pantry doorway with his clipboard held loosely in one hand. For the moment, he and Ace were alone; he'd managed to convince the nurses to hang out in the mess hall on the other side of the swinging galley doors with the point that they were just a shout away if anything went wrong. "I'm giving them a break this afternoon." He realized too late that he was contradicting his own reasoning from earlier.

Ace palmed a new potato. "Just to give me 'something to do,' huh?"

"If you don't want to—"

"No, I appreciate it." He flipped the knife around his fingers and spun it over his knuckles. "The nurses wouldn't even give me back my dagger until yesterday."

"Did you need it for something?"

"No, but…" he stopped messing with his knife, and his expression softened in a way it usually only did when he was talking about his brother. "Someone important gave it to me, so I like to hang onto it."

Sensing the mood about to shift towards melancholy, Thatch stepped in. "Well, congratulations on reclaiming the 'armed' part of 'armed and dangerous.' And on your recovery in general. I know Tasuka's been keeping you on a pretty tight leash."

Ace snorted, glancing towards the doors leading out into the mess hall. "Yeah, that's an understatement. She never listens when I say I'm fine."

A raised eyebrow was all Thatch needed to do to remind Ace of what had happened the last time he insisted he was "fine." Fortunately, Ace just blushed instead of getting caught up in the guilt hanging like a shroud over his head.

"I won't do it again. I've still got this." He flicked the sea stone around his wrist.

"How are things going with Marco?"

"They're…going."

That was an imminent shutdown if Thatch had ever seen one. He switched tracks while wishing he hadn't put Ace on the defensive. "Speaking of our resident bird, I was talking to him last week. He was pretty bothered by something you said."

Ace wound down to a stop and looked up at Thatch warily.

"Failing your family, thinking that failure might have to do with what happened with the," he made a loose gesture to indicate Ace's explosion and hoped his tone was light enough that Ace didn't take this as an attack. "And I don't mean to pressure you, but you never got the chance to answer me at breakfast last week. Is that what got to you?"

The silent point that Ace was still wearing his sea stone hung between them. Ace set his knife aside.

"You're also avoiding your division's galley," Thatch said carefully. Ace stiffened. "I'm a cook, Ace. I spend most of my time here, and you're hard not to notice. I appreciate that you're socializing after what happened, but is there a reason you're avoiding your division's wing of the ship other than to sleep there?"

Ace's gaze fell to the table. His hair slipped loose from behind his ears and hung like a curtain between them. Even if Thatch couldn't see the pain in Ace's eyes, though, he could see it in the set of his mouth easily enough. Ace was biting his lip hard enough to turn it nearly white.

Pushing this any further was just going to make things worse. Thatch closed his eyes for a moment. He'd known that asking Ace these questions would make things awkward, but he'd really expected Ace to give him something. It looked like Ace was practically warring with himself every time Thatch plied him for information.

He wasn't going to lie. Not being trusted with whatever was causing Ace this much pain stung. But he was also a grown man, and he wasn't going to force Ace to do anything he didn't want to do. He'd talked through this idea with Marco and the big bird had seemed to think it would work, so—despite decades-old reservations tugging well-worn chords in his chest—he spoke.

"You know, I ran away from home when I was sixteen. By accident, really."

Ace blinked and lifted his head. His eyes flicked between Thatch's while his brows furrowed. "How do you run away by accident?"

"Pure talent. And some good luck." Thatch leaned against the doorframe and blew out a breath. "My family wasn't noble, but we worked under one that was. We were their personal chefs. Now, despite my present unparalleled prowess in the kitchen, I wasn't always a master. Nor was my work always appreciated." He pointed his pen at the sink. "I started as the dishwasher. Scalded myself more times than I can count; it's why I feel temperature better with my right hand than my left."

"Right," Ace said slowly. His tone was neutral but his expression said get to the point.

"Naturally, I wasn't content to stick to cleaning," He spun the pen around and gestured at the impressive arrangement of appliances around them. "I had grander ambitions. To get there, I had to practice, and I had to perfect some experimental recipes of my own. But there was a big problem."

Ace narrowed his eyes. "The nobles."

Thatch grinned. "Bingo. The food I used wasn't my family's; it was theirs. Punishment fell on all of us, but it hit me the hardest after my biological parents sold me out."

Ace's expression turned thunderous. "Your—"

"They didn't hate me," Thatch explained, trying to make Ace understand before that anger got in the way, "but, uh, well. They valued themselves more. They'd never even planned on having a kid at all, so," he shrugged.

Ace subsided with that storm lingering behind his eyes.

"Cut to six years later—"

"Years?"

"—and I was pretty well disliked by the nobles. I mean, any sixteen-year-old brat invites ire, but I wasn't really going out of my way to endear myself to them, you know? I was still stealing from their stores to practice, but I'd gotten good at it, so most of the time they didn't even notice." He jerked a thumb at the scar by his eye with a grin. "Most of the time." His grin fell away. "My father came around to my side of things and tried to help out, but my mother was against it all. She was terrified of what would happen to us if we ever lost the nobles' favor."

"It always comes back to them," Ace muttered. He'd curled the fingers of one hand into a fist. A history with nobles? He'd always had a bend towards causing trouble for the World Government, but maybe it ran deeper than the whims of piracy.

Thatch kept going. "One auspicious day, my mother burns her hand pretty bad and can't bake a cake for the nobles' birthday party—I think it was for their son, or maybe their daughter? Either way, I told her I'd do it, since my father was busy with the banquet. I wanted to show off, convince her that the trouble I'd caused was worth it."

He stalled for a beat by fixing some stray strands of hair doing their best to escape from his pompadour. Ace frowned. "So what happened?"

Thatch flashed a big, bright smile. "I fucked it up."

"Huh?"

"Not on purpose, but it was my fault. And because of all my experiments, we didn't have enough of a particularly special ingredient to make a second cake. I had to go out into town and track some down or at least find a replacement that would satisfy the noble palate." He absently scratched his nose. "One thing led to another, and I found myself stuck in the hold of a pirate ship setting sail. I'd thought it was a merchant vessel and that I could steal something from their stores, but that didn't really work out."

"Was it Pops's?"

"No, not yet. That came later. These guys never really made it into the history books, if you get my meaning. But they were leaving port with me on board. I knew how to swim. If I'd wanted to, I could've jumped and made it back to shore."

"Why didn't you?"

"The million-beri question." Thatch's shoulders dropped a hair. "I was sixteen, I'd just failed to do the thing I'd promised I'd do, and I'd put my mother in the line of fire in the process. We'd been fighting for years; to her, I practically stabbed her in the back every time I stole." His voice turned wistful. "I was so sure she hated me."

He blinked old memories out of his eyes and looked back at Ace, whose eyes had widened for a second before that storm rolled back in. Thatch did his best to inject that lighthearted tone back into his voice. He didn't want his own mistakes to be what Ace focused on.

"So, naturally, I didn't make any effort to go back. Many, many years later, here I am, cooking for the best father on the four seas. I think it worked out."

Ace searched his face, probably searching for a point in all this. Thatch offered a crooked grin.

"It took me a long time—too long," he acknowledged, "to realize that a lot of what makes a betrayal hurt is intent. I had a lot of reasons to leave that family behind," his mouth took on a wry twist, "but the one thing that made me certain I had to was probably the least significant of any of them. Maybe it's selfish to brush it off; after all, I'm the one who left."

The confusion hadn't left Ace's expression.

Thatch heaved a sigh. "Right. If Izo were here, he'd tell me I was being way too indirect. Just—try not to assume what we'll think. Give us a chance to think for ourselves, you know?"

When his final word was left hanging, Thatch pursed his lips and let it stay that way. Ace was staring down at the potato in his hands with a pained look on his face. For a moment, Thatch wondered if he'd nicked himself with the knife, but when Ace saw him looking and raised his head, it became clear that the pain was internal.

Ace broke eye contact to set his potato down and then made a pretense of brushing bits off his hands. Thatch wasn't fooled; he was stalling. Finally, Ace closed his eyes, took a breath, and then looked Thatch right in the eyes. "Do you trust me?"

Thatch blinked. He'd really thought his story would encourage the opposite question—whether Ace trusted him, not the other way around. "Of course I do."

Ace's expression did a funny thing, but he just nodded and recovered his potato. Left in the lurch, Thatch haltingly resumed taking inventory, though his scattered mind took several seconds to remember where he even was in the process. That was it? After all of that? Ace had gotten the answer he wanted, apparently, but Thatch was left with just as many questions as he'd started with, if not more. Why was his trust in Ace something that Ace felt the need to check?

What was he missing?

The Moby Dick arriving at any island was always a bit of a special occasion, and this time was no exception. If anything, this was more of a special occasion: while they had stocked up at Toraburu Island and managed enough repairs to get the Moby Dick seaworthy again, Blamenco had ordered they stop for a full day at this island while his division procured even more supplies. They had cleaned out Toraburu's shipyard and still been left wanting, something the shipwright division's commander was clearly out to remedy.

Marco wasn't going to get in his way; after all, his business at this particular island was as mundane as it got, and a day of rest would let him get on top of his own work.

Per the instructions circulating on the ship, he procured a suit. Rather than wait in the long line of his fellow pirates purchasing formal clothing of their own, he swiftly took his prize back to the Moby Dick, and to one room in particular.

"Come in," Izo called when Marco knocked.

Marco opened the door. Rather, he tried to; it caught almost immediately. Seeing fabric poking out from under it, Marco peered around the edge and raised an eyebrow at the commander seated in the middle of a carpet of clothes.

"Just push it a bit, it's all a mess anyway," Izo said with a sigh. "I think my system broke down hours ago."

"I take it I'm not the first to think of using your services."

"Not even close. Though almost all of these are from yesterday; you're only the third one this morning. What do you have for me?"

"A new suit."

Izo raised a delicate eyebrow and peered in the bag Marco handed over. "And what catastrophe has demanded you change tradition?"

"Thatch took it upon himself to bet Jiru and Haruta fifty thousand beri each that I would wear the same formal getup I always do."

"I should've guessed. How'd you find out?"

"Namur. He was patrolling that side of the ship when Thatch was conspiring and he still owed me for covering his division's patrol route last month. I've decided to remind Thatch why betting on my behavior is a poor choice."

Izo deftly tied off a knot and set aside the shirt he'd been working on. "I swear Thatch forgets you have eyes and ears everywhere every time he comes up with an idea."

"There isn't enough room in his head for both-yoi," Marco said dryly, earning an amused smile. "So, should I take my tailoring request elsewhere?"

"Of course not. Set it over there, to the left of the vests."

Marco picked his way across the floor, eye catching on all of the Whitebeard symbols emblazoned on the shirts in this corner. "Did you get a commission?"

It wasn't their simplified Jolly Roger, either. It was the full symbol, grinning skull and mustache, like what Pops had on his back.

Like what Ace used to have. Right as he connected the dots, Izo noticed his expression and nodded. "Ace asked me to. Apparently he already talked to Tasuka and the other nurses, and they said the skin on his back was beyond recovery. He even went to Curiel to see if he could still put a tattoo on the scar tissue, but the damage was too great. It wouldn't turn out."

"And the last thing Ace wants to do is dishonor Pops's mark," Marco muttered. "This is his compromise?"

"For now. I certainly wasn't going to turn him down. Actually, can you take the ones I've finished to his room? Ace is out with Thatch, and I need to free up a bit of space here."

"Just a bit-yoi," Marco said wryly.

"If you do it, I'll have more time to get those alterations of yours done."

"Which ones are they?"

Izo smiled a victor's smile.

"Ace?"

He knocked again. The door was already partially open, but it was best to be sure. Ace didn't have strong reactions to most things, but—in addition to his issue with accepting Pops's mark—someone invading his space was, without a doubt, on the list. Blamenco had never quite been able to get the scorch marks out of Ace's doorframe from the first and only time someone had made that mistake.

His second knock got no answer. Marco glanced down at the pile of clothes Izo had tasked him with delivering. If he found out that Marco had just left them on the floor…

With a sigh, Marco pushed the door open. "I'll be fast, Ace," he muttered. He left the door open, too, just in case.

The bedsheets were rumpled, so Marco angled for the desk, only to see that the chair was tipped over on the floor and the desk had a notebook open on it. His eyes then went to the pencil that had rolled partway under the desk and the pieces all fell into place. He could almost picture it: Ace writing in that notebook, minding his own business, when Thatch barged into the room and dragged him out to go shopping.

Poor kid.

Balancing the clothes in one hand, he righted the chair with the other and gingerly set the pile down on the seat. As he made sure they wouldn't tip over, his gaze fell onto the open notebook for just a moment. It was a glance at best, but even so, he had read some of the few words scrawled on the page before he realized he was doing it. He quickly looked away, but his mind was already turning over what he'd seen.

A list—people, events, and islands, he recognized Foodvalten and Hachinosu—and dates.

But none of the dates had happened yet. The closest one was still more than a week away. Was Ace trying to predict the future? Maybe he visited a fortune teller at an island recently. It was a bit strange, but everyone was welcome to their own superstitions.

As an afterthought, Marco switched the clothes to the bed after straightening the sheets a bit. Ace might suspect someone had seen the notebook anyway, but there was no need to make it obvious.

It wasn't like Marco was going to bring it up. Ace deserved some privacy even with all the secrets he kept. He'd keep what he saw to himself when he met up with Ace later.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Ace admitted, looking—and feeling—rather lost while he gazed up at a display window. Those mannequins had to be uncomfortable, posed like that. Thatch raised an eyebrow.

"Have you never been shopping before?"

Ace scowled. "'Course I have. These shorts, belt, boots, supplies, stuff like that."

"Never a suit? I see your problem. Luckily for you, I happen to be the ship's foremost expert on suits and all manner of formal apparel."

Ace felt his hopes rise, but then he remembered Thatch's character and shot the chef a frown laden with a healthy dose of disbelief.

Thatch looked offended for a moment and then sighed. "Okay, sure, there are a couplepeople who might be more qualified—"

"More than that," Ace interrupted. "Izo, for one. Vista. I mean, even Marco's got opinions, even if he doesn't take his own advice."

"Marco? He's worn the same—you know what, we're getting off topic. Bottom line, I am perfectly qualified to help you pick out a suit and tie combo that will send the ladies flying into your arms."

Ace snorted. "Not interested in something like that."

"Don't like ladies?"

"That's not it," Ace demurred, tilting his head back to look at the sky. He narrowed his eyes at the clouds that, when he squinted, almost looked like devil fruits. "I've got other things to focus on right now."

"What about when you settle down?" Thatch asked, nudging Ace suggestively and forcing Ace's thoughts back to the present. "Or if you find a partner worthy of you on the seas?"

And do what? Ace didn't say that out loud, but the thought scalded. Have a kid, let Roger's blood poison another generation? To hell with that.

He gave Thatch a look that could have melted iron. "I'm not tying myself down."

And that was that.

They abandoned the shop with the strange mannequins and went to one a block over and half-hidden in an alley. Thatch grabbed Ace, who hesitated for a second upon seeing some of the outlandish outfits on display, by the arm and barged in without a care for the slightly irritated look of the rather pompous man behind the counter. Ace could see the instant that man recognized who Thatch and Ace were; his face cleared instantly.

It was a small shop, but it was full of suits. A handful of decorated mannequins, not contorted into uncomfortable poses this time, were arranged in artful ways to show off their outfits. In all, the interior was cozy and smelled of cloth and polish.

"Good day, sir!" Thatch called, a jovial grin on his face while he walked up to the counter. Ace hovered off to one side, eyeing a mannequin to his left like he suspected it was about to start moving. "My friend and I would like suits."

The shopkeeper's gaze darted between Thatch—still smiling and looking about as genteel as a pirate could look—and Ace, who was still glowering. Deciding that humoring Thatch was the best option, the shopkeeper nodded slowly.

"Would you be needing two suits, sir?"

"Ah, you can just call me Thatch. And yes, two would be great."

"Do you have any styles in mind?"

"Nothing overdone," Thatch said, glancing at Ace and suppressing a sigh when he saw that Ace had managed to fall asleep while standing up. Better than falling over; the nurses would've had his head, since he only got Ace shore leave on the promise that Thatch would keep an eye on him in their stead. "Something…simple, but not boring."

"It would be hard to find a suit that could be called boring with gentlemen like yourselves," the shopkeeper said. Then he went white. "Ah, my apologies."

"It's fine. We gentlemen will let you know if we find anything to our liking."

Eyeing the snoring Ace, the shopkeeper nodded slowly. "I suppose you will."

In a truly impressive feat of balance, Ace managed to stay both asleep and standing through the entirety of the time it took Thatch to pick a suit for himself. When he woke up, however, Thatch immediately bombarded him with several different suit choices. Ace, whose childhood raised by bandits did not leave him a fashion enthusiast, just went along with the ones Thatch clearly preferred. Then he was swept up in a whirlwind of measurements and rapid-fire questions from the shopkeeper, and by the time he was finished Ace's head was spinning.

And, Thatch was pleased to note, all that melancholy from before was nowhere to be seen. He guided his younger brother out of the store, a pleased glow about him. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Not really," Ace admitted, turning sideways to let a few of their crewmates by. "How'd you even know about this shop, anyway? Every other one was packed."

Thatch thumbed his nose. "I have my connections."

"That so."

"Oh, ye of little faith." They'd even been lucky enough to get in before word about the shop got out to the rest of their family. "You'll see in a few days. In the meantime, we get to hang out on this island. There's supposed to be a good bar up the street—I forget the name—and it's where Marco's meeting us."

Ace's expression darkened. "I'll pass."

"What? C'mon, it'll be fun!"

"The last bar I was in, I burned to the ground."

Thatch's mouth made a perfect O. He spent a couple seconds mentally berating himself, then slung an arm around Ace's shoulders, careful not to put any real weight behind it. "But I'm sure you've been in plenty of bars that you haven't burned down! C'mon, you don't want to leave your record on this island at one for one, do you? Let's make it one for two. It'll be good for you. You know the only thing waiting for you on the ship is the nurses, and I'm sure they'll want Tasuka to take a look at you since they let you wander around without them."

Ace shuddered. "Maybe…Maybe a bar isn't a bad idea."

"That's the spirit! You up for some drinking?"

Ace made a face. "I've never been a massive fan. I don't mind the taste, but—" he made a vague gesture at his body. "I burn it off almost as fast as I can take it in."

"You poor boy," Thatch said. Then he brightened. "Hold it. You're wearing the bracelet, aren't you?"

Ace paused and looked down at his own wrist like he'd forgotten the thing existed. "Yeah, I guess I am." He shook out his arm. "I'm not noticing it as much anymore, I think. But I'm still not drinking, just in case."

"Aw, why not?" Thatch cursed himself when he saw the dark cloud he thought he'd chased away settle right back over Ace's face. "You know what? Never mind. Some people like it, some people don't. I'd bet you'd make a pretty terrifying drunk, anyway."

"Yeah, probably."

"How about some pool instead? As the only sober guy in the tournament, you'll be the star of the show."

"Tournament?"

"Curiel was talking about organizing it when we came into port. C'mon, you know you want to. Or you can be the judge—that'll probably lead to less complaining from our dear family."

Ace bit his lip for a second and then let out a breath. "You know what? I think I'd like that. To hell with being a judge, though. I'm gonna win."